Tales From the Battlefield
by Saint Milly
Summary: For centuries, people have boasted of war stories. These are the men who have first-hand experience; these are tales from the battlefield.
1. A Promise

We ran.

Dodging stray bullets from the mounts of machine guns, we just ran. I glanced over at you, your dirt-streaked face sweating bullets of your own, your green eyes turning from determined to panic-stricken. Our backpacks bumped against our heads, but we just kept running. I followed you. I don't even think you knew where to go.

Sound erupted all around us, but you ignored it. The screams of soldiers, allies and enemies, as they drew in what they hoped wasn't their last breath; grenades exploding by another victim; the tossing of dirt mounds as shrapnel disturbed them; I couldn't handle it. I whimpered like a child, after all, that's what we were: children. Men trying to defend our country. You were barely a day older than I, but our maturity was not refined.

You suddenly turned to me, begging me that whatever happened, whatever you told me to do, I would obey. You made swear on that, that both of our lives depended on it. I nodded, but only afterward did I realize the extent of the pact we had made. I pushed it out of my mind, and pointed over to a nearby ditch we could hide. You nodded, and we rushed over to it, ducking among the dirt.

My sharp intake of breath caught your attention, and your eyes followed mine. Holding our guns to our chests, we looked down at the body of a familiar comrade. He wore a blank expression, his eyes gazing up at the dust-filled sky, mouth slightly open. His helmet straps were fastened tight under his toned chin, dried blood had blossomed over his khaki tunic, spilling on the black dirt. I couldn't even bear to look at his neck, because I already knew how he died. The terrible part of it was that his death could've been avoided. The trainers even made us swear to never fasten the straps of the helmets. But Bobby Hendricks never remembered anything important. He never remembered that if we fastened the straps, the impact of an explosion nearby could send the straps through our necks, slitting our throats in a slow and painful death, or decapitating us quickly.

I tried to swallow, but something was stuck in my throat, and I choked back tears. We just graduated with him. It had seemed so long ago. I closed his eyes and tore my gaze from him. I wiped my eyes and firmly grasped my rifle.

We crouched up, spotting another ditch, hoping this one was clear. We reached it and ducked down again. An abandoned Thompson lay nearby and you quickly snatched it up.

Suddenly, the last thing I ever expected happened; a Japanese soldier ran into our line of vision. His eyes fell on you, and he ran towards us, holding his scope up to his eye. I couldn't tell who he was aiming for, but you had the Thompson.

The Japanese soldier fell back, dead. You pulled the trigger. I always knew you to trust your instincts, but it wasn't reaction.

It was the jerk of your body as the bullet hit you.

A small red flower bloomed before my eyes. I yelled in horror, my eyes never leaving the center of your chest. You fell on your back, shaking violently, dropping the Thompson.

Hands shaking as violently as your body, I pulled our backpacks off and searched for a knife. You tried to speak, but blood just coughed up. You pointed to the side pocket on your khaki tunic. I nearly tore the pocket off getting that pocket-knife. Your breathing was ragged, but it kept me focused on what I needed to do.

I cut a little piece of fabric and ripped the rest of your shirt apart. I pulled out a couple of bandages, a water canteen, and some cloth to stem the flow of your blood. I didn't even worry about the fact that most of it was getting on my own hands, I just tried to work quickly.

Your breathing began to ease again, not to mention that your body wasn't jerking uncontrollably. I relaxed and wiped the sweat off my brow, leaning back. Everything was quiet now as we waited to be found by allies.

I spoke softly to you, reminding us that when we got back to the states, everything was going to be alright. We were gonna see our Mom and Dad again, and everything was going to be like just before we enlisted in the army. I think I was talking to reassure myself that I was still alive. But a thought kept nagging at me, one that was actually the truth. "It's never gonna be the same, no matter how hard you imagine it to be. No turning back," it said, "they told you when you stepped on that plane to Iwo Jima."

An hour later when you started to draw in long airs of breath. I knew something was wrong. You finally managed to remind me of that pact we made earlier. About me obeying whatever command you told me. You told me now was the time to obey my orders, whether I liked it or not. I held you so tightly for so long, making each crucial moment last. I kissed your dirt covered hair, not ever wanting to let go.

But I had to obey you.

I looked away from your pained expression and grasped the gun in my sweaty grip. The cold, lifeless object. The tears escaped on their own, and nothing I thought about could stop them from flowing out.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I screamed as I pulled the trigger. I backed away from the body at my feet, staring at my hands. I hated him with all my will. I hated myself for being such a good brother, and fulfilling my promise to him. All I felt was hate and hurt.

Long after, I understood the trust we had with each other. It just pained me that we loved each other that much to have such bond so strong.

But you made me promise.

* * *

_This is an original fiction that I posted on back in early December I think. Hope you guys enjoyed!_


	2. Dumb Hood

1It was on the coffee table.

Right there, in my line of vision.

Experiences and common knowledge told me what it was. I wasn't a dumb hood.

It was impossible to miss; the milky glint of the liquid as the lamp reflected off it and the shock of white and silver against the oak coffee table beckoned it's silvery fingers to me in a sinister promise to block the pain, if only for a few hours.

It was impossible to not even think about the syringe and it's very contents.  
Impossible to not think about the piercing pain when the cold needle penetrates your flesh.  
Impossible to not think about the half minute when you experience nothing but agony, then a wonderful sensation that levitates your feet, makes you feel like you're invincible, and at the same time fills your mind with heavy inebriation so that nothing is understandable.

The need to understand in those moments is useless, and you only want to concentrate on those moments that produce that heavenly feeling that sweeps your head into the clouds.

The guilt suddenly ebbed onto my mind after temptation broke through my mental barriers, a dark monster creeping up beneath me from under the couch, longing to serve justice. I couldn't do it; my best friend of nine years died saved my life, and that was how I remembered him? By locking myself in his empty house and letting liquid drugs work their deadly magic on me? Pathetic.

The worst part was, I'd proved my father right by following in his footsteps (minus the knock up of a girlfriend); he looked to alcohol as a cure-all since Mom died when I was ten, I looked to drugs after returning from Vietnam, facing the loss of Sodapop Patrick Curtis, aged 19 in his grave. He left behind a confused 16-year-old brother and a struggling 23-year-old brother, as had so many other young American soldiers in similar variations.

That was the reason why I turned to heroin; I wanted to be free from the pain that imprisoned me. The old Steve Randle that had been left in Tulsa before the draft happened was never going to come back, and I even knew it. I'd tried lying to myself with the drugs, fooling myself that when I was shooting up everything was fine, but in the morning it would still be the same sense of emptiness, if not intensified and stronger than before. But I was so addicted to the substance and the pain. Ah, the pain. That felt good. Torturing myself for what I had become and what I had done over in Vietnam; everything about self destruction was addictive.

So to put it plainly... I couldn't escape it.

I knew that part of me had been left in Vietnam, when I watched Soda and countless other innocent people suffer from war and hatred. (Is that considered repetition? I think it does; war is hatred.)

As I looked at the needle on the table, I knew that it would be the last time I'd ever be coaxed into addiction by the white substance. That's why I dumped it in the sink drain, buried the syringe deep in the Curtis' backyard, and cleaned all my bandages.

That was, how I would put, the beginning of the end. It was the beginning of change. Months afterward, I still struggled with the addiction that kept me so desperate for a fix. But later on, I conquered the addiction and replaced it with something else: helping others with my problem. That's right, I became a drug counselor. Who knew that Steve Randle, the "dumb hood who only knew how to fix cars and rumble", would become a counselor? I didn't, that's for sure, but I found my life fulfillment in that field of psychology.

I wasn't a dumb hood.


End file.
